When Violet was small, she’d been the apple of her father’s eye: smart, athletic, precocious. She had worshipped him, too, had hung on his every word, laughed at every joke, no matter how corny. He’d indulged all her whims, unable to say no to her cherubic little face, had been putty in her chubby little hands. “You spoil her,” Celeste had gently chided, but she’d admired their father-daughter bond, understood it. Celeste had been a daddy’s girl, too. She knew how seminal that relationship was.

And then, something changed. Violet changed. She got “woke.” Instead of gazing on him with adoration, his daughter now sneered at him with disdain. She considered him conservative and backward. Capitalist scum. A symbol of the patriarchy.

“She’ll come around,” Celeste assured him. “Her principles will evolve and change as she gets older.”

But it cut him, his daughter’s scorn. Gabe had pulled away from his only child in the last few years, repelled by her brittle affect and her constant judgment. He would keep his emotional distance and he would wait. One day, his adoring girl would return.

Violet was alone on the darkened stage now, a spotlight shining down on her lustrous brown hair. In this lighting, you could barely see her pierced septum, the gold ring that branded her “alternative.” His daughter had inherited her mother’s good looks but not her poise, her confidence, or her common sense. Celeste was practical. She’d chosen a career that was altruistic as well as lucrative. Violet would barely discuss college with him, said she’d never consider going into the law. Celeste stayed in a marriage that offered financial stability, physical trappings, the appearance of perfection. Violet (who had recently announced herself pansexual) would insist on a soul connection, emotional intimacy, rainbows, and fireworks. Completely unrealistic.

“Our job as her parents is to love her and accept her,” Celeste had said. But, his wife’s unconditional devotion had given their daughter carte blanche to turn herself into a morally superior jerk. Had Violet remained with her hard-drinking, coke-snorting peers, at least she’d have been normal, at least she’d have made some useful connections. But Celeste was in charge of their daughter’s well-being. And Gabe had plenty to distract him: a challenging career; a membership at an exclusive gym; sexy, younger, women eager to please. As Violet performed her soliloquy (something about white privilege though she was, technically, three-quarters white), Gabe realized that the girl onstage was a stranger to him.

His phone, in the breast pocket of his jacket, vibrated silently. It would be work. He was currently embroiled in a massive acquisition, should not be away from the office, but Celeste had guilt-tripped him into staying for this performance. He would head back to the city first thing in the morning, be in the office before anyone else. Surreptitiously, his hand slipped inside his sport coat. Celeste would admonish him if she saw him checking texts during Violet’s monologue, but his wife was still filming, seemingly enraptured by their daughter’s words. Celeste and Violet had had their issues—the girl could be strong-willed and rebellious; her mother’s illness had taken a toll on all of them—but they now shared a connection, a bond that excluded him.